Christmas, Iowa Style
by Annakovsky
Summary: Riley Finn, Christmas 2003.


SUMMARY: Riley Finn, Christmas 2003  
  
SPOILERS: Mild ones through "Chosen"  
  
RATING: G  
  
DISCLAIMER: All characters, settings, universe, etc, belong to Joss Whedon and Mutant Enemy.  
  
ARCHIVING: Probably, but ask first so I know where it is.  
  
FEEDBACK: Please! Send to annakovsky@hotmail.com  
  
**********  
  
Christmas, Iowa Style  
  
by Annakovsky  
  
**********  
  
The first girl I ever had a crush on was Courtney Nicholson. Second grade. She had these long brown braids and she'd get real mad if you'd pull them. Chase you around the playground all fiery-eyed and fierce until she either punched you or got bored. And she played soccer with us guys almost every recess period and was better than almost everyone (except Will Shoemaker, but he went on to make all-state in high school).  
  
I had this whole plan for when we grew up, how we were going to get married and live in Huxley and have four kids, two boys and two girls. I wrote this down in my second grader handwriting, big and bold and awkward, and hid it under my mattress. I don't really know why I felt compelled to do this, except that writing was so new and powerful then. I had just learned how and the act of it was so grown up, so strong. It sort of felt like writing it down would make it come true. And I really wanted it to.  
  
Then of course one time when Chrissy was snooping around in my room she found it and she and Brennan didn't let it go for *years*. I swear, I think they brought it up last Christmas. And I mean, Chrissy's what, like, thirty-two now? You'd think she'd have reached maturity and wouldn't still be saying things like, "Courtney and Riley sitting in a tree." Sisters.  
  
Yeah, okay, I complain, but that stupid sibling stuff is what the holidays are about, right? I kind of like it that we still sometimes tease each other until Mom says, "Kids," in her old warning tone, though these days her eyes are smiling when she says it. I guess us fighting is cuter now that she doesn't have to put up with it on a daily basis. Just at these holiday round-ups, when we all show up to drag up second-grade crushes and try to embarrass each other in front of our spouses. (I got Christina by telling Doug about the time she and her friends got in the car after church and accidentally put it into drive and almost hit the pastor's car. Now *that* was funny.)  
  
It's still odd to me that we have spouses now, though. Well, Brennan doesn't, but he's all grown up too, even though in my head I still half picture him as an awkward teen, nose too big for his face, all arms and legs. Now he's as tall as me and broad, athletic. That's what I get for going to school in California and then spending two years in South America, I guess. Everyone grows up.  
  
Including me. So here I am at the Christmas Eve service at Grace Community Church, sitting in the pew where I used to draw pictures of people with buck-teeth and bug-eyes during the sermon and label them "Christina" or "Brennan". Watching the kid's choir sing and remembering when I was old enough so I didn't have to be in it anymore, but Brennan was still stuck there, and how I made faces at him to try to make him crack and laugh during the carols. The only things different now are the names of the kids - there's still the one little girl in the front row inevitably pulling up her skirt and flashing the whole church, still the one kid who can't stay still and who ends up dancing from side to side. Everything's the same - except now I am suddenly a grown man, sitting next to my wife and holding our son in my arms.  
  
In second grade, when I wasn't dreaming of domestic bliss with Courtney Nicholson, I was pretending to be Superman. Truth, justice and the American way, defeating evil by night and going back to my mild mannered persona by day. I was a pretty average little boy, I guess. When I grew up I wanted a wife, kids and a career fighting evil.  
  
Weird that I somehow managed to get everything I wanted. It doesn't feel exactly like I thought it would.  
  
After we do the candlelit part of the singing and the pastor gives the benediction, the service is over and I have that nice, quiet, Christmas-y feeling inside. Cold clear night, crisp stars, and inside it's warm, like a stable with straw and a manger maybe. That's what the Christmas Eve service always feels like - peaceful, I guess.  
  
Sam's got Nathaniel now, and the church ladies all corral her to admire the baby, as church ladies are, I think, required by law to do. My mom's in the middle, showing off her first grandbaby and looking blissfully happy. I smile apologetically at Sam, but she just grins at me, quietly amused. She likes it here. I didn't think she would, after adventures in the jungle and everything, since Iowa's not exactly the most exciting place in the world. But when I asked her what she thought, last night, she looked all far away. "There's just... so much love," she said, kind of wistfully.  
  
I get clapped on the back by my dad, who's brought over Mr. Ryken, the high school principal. We shake hands genially and after the initial pleasantries, he says, "So Riley, I hear you're thinking of coming back and settling down."  
  
"Well, sir, we're thinking about it," I say. "Can't do too many special ops with a baby in tow, and we're both getting sick of desk work. Thinking of going into the private sector."  
  
"Well, I was just telling your dad about how much trouble we've been having finding a football and baseball coach since Coach Haag retired last spring. Now, I know you don't have certification, but if you were interested...."  
  
"In coaching at Huxley?" I ask, surprised.  
  
"We'd love to have you, son. Just something to think about."  
  
"Yes, sir. I'll... well, I'll talk to my wife. Thanks."  
  
"My pleasure. We're all awfully proud of you. And I was thinking of you right around the time Coach Haag retired... why was that? Oh, that town in California, the one the earthquake swallowed! Didn't you go to school there?"  
  
"Yeah, I did. Sunnydale."  
  
"My, that was quite a thing. Did everyone you know get out okay?"  
  
"Nearly," I say. Afterwards, I had managed to pull some strings to find out what had happened. Well, okay, by pull strings I mean that I emailed Willow and she told me. Unbelievable how bad it sounds like it was, and unbelievable what they did to pull it off. Makes me half miss the Scooby gang and the way they're always doing six unbelievable things before breakfast, and half glad that I got out when I did.  
  
This gets me thinking about Sunnydale all evening. About Buffy. Because the thing about Sunnydale is, you're always fighting demons, but you don't remember why. You're so wrapped up in the fight, in how hard it is, that you miss out on the ordinary stuff, the regular people and regular, homey good things. On people making sandwiches and falling in love and carrying their kids around on their shoulders and, I dunno, gardening. Whereas in Iowa, all you can see is the why. It makes you want to keep the world safe for church ladies and school principals and moms and dads and little brothers.  
  
"Hey Dad, look what I can do! Hey Dad, look what I can do!" A high, silly voice penetrates my fog and I look over to see Brennan holding my son in his lap. Then he starts singing Abba's "Dancing Queen" in the same falsetto and moving Nathaniel's arms around so it looks like he's dancing. "Dancing queen, so young and sweet, only seventeeeenn...." I grin and roll my eyes.  
  
"Please don't traumatize my son," I say.  
  
"What?" says Brennan. "He likes it! Look!" Nat does look like he's having a good time, smiling a big toothless grin. That kid... my heart feels like it grows about three sizes every time I look at him.  
  
"Well, that's horrible dancing," I say, smiling.  
  
"Like father, like son," Brennan shoots back in his regular voice, then goes back to singing in the falsetto. And, of course, Dad comes in with the video camera.  
  
"Oh no," I groan. And this moment is now captured on film, for Nat's future humiliation. Suddenly I picture him, tall and dark-haired, looking vaguely like Sam, bringing home his college girlfriend. My firstborn. I'm still not used to it.  
  
I can't sleep that night. Sam's conked out in seconds, but I toss and turn. It's three a.m. before Nat wakes, hungry. Sam groans and starts to roll over. "I'll get him," I whisper, up and getting him from his crib before she even fully wakes up. I take him down to the kitchen, warm up a bottle. When it's ready to go, I wander into the living room, feeding him. The tree's lights are the only illumination, and I can dimly make out the pile of presents under the tree, the overflowing stockings on the mantel. Nat and I lie down on the floor next to the tree, and I hold the bottle while he looks up at the lights and drinks, green and orange and blue and red blinking over him. The house is quiet and still and it is Christmas morning.  
  
It takes a long time to feed a baby, and it's mesmerizing; the slow gulping, the easy calm of it, the intimacy. Nat's smudge of dark hair, his round, soft baby cheeks.  
  
It scares me, how much I love him. Knowing what I know.  
  
I know that his head would fit just about perfectly in the palm of a Trilbak demon, easily crushed. I know that the talons of a Gille would tear right through his belly, that the Ylio could snatch him away in an instant and fly away. That a vamp would think he was a pretty decent appetizer.  
  
And I am suddenly incredibly grateful for Buffy, doing what she does. And I hope that she's happy. Last time I saw her she was... pretty spectacularly unhappy, it seemed like. I didn't like that - she ought to be happy. Especially on Christmas.  
  
I have Willow's cell phone number and I know that they're in England. Where it's currently around nine a.m.  
  
Calling would be incredibly stupid, I think as I pick up the phone. If Buffy's not happy, she doesn't want to hear from you, and if she is, an ex-boyfriend call is just going to bring her down. My thumb incomprehensibly starts dialing the numbers. Besides, it's Christmas morning; no one calls people on Christmas morning unless they're a family member or psycho. And the phone is ringing. What the hell is wrong with you, Finn?  
  
"...my cellphone. Dawn, do NOT open that! I'll be right back!" Willow says faintly as the phone picks up. "Hello?" I can hear giggling in the background, what sounds like Xander's voice, then Giles chiming in. There's the rustling of paper and a shriek. My throat is a little thick all of a sudden, picturing them all.  
  
"Hey Willow, it's Riley," I say. "Uh, happy Hanukkah!" I suddenly feel really stupid for calling.  
  
"Riley!" she says, sounding surprised. "Hey!"  
  
"Sorry to interrupt your Christmas morning," I say.  
  
"Oh, no problem!" she says. "We're just doing our stockings before breakfast." Someone squeals and there's a loud burst of group laughter in the background. I can pick out Buffy's giggle, sounding bright and unencumbered. Happy.  
  
"Sounds like you're having a good time," I say. Nat is kicking his legs under the lights and I stroke his cheek.  
  
"Yup! How're you? We got your Christmas card! Cute baby."  
  
"Thanks," I say.  
  
"You wanna talk to Buffy?" she asks and suddenly I can hear the phone being carried across the room, picking up cross patches of conversation. I hear Xander say, "...little elves...," a voice I don't recognize say, "...Magneto hates...," and then Buffy faintly saying, "Riley?" to Willow, sounding confused. Then her voice is closer.  
  
"Riley?"  
  
"Buffy! Hey, merry Christmas!"  
  
"You too!" she says brightly. "Hey, wait, isn't it, like, four-thirty in the morning your time?"  
  
"Uh... three thirty," I say sheepishly. "We're on Central. So you're doing Christmas in England this year, huh?"  
  
"Yeah, the gang's all here," she says. It sounds like she's smiling. "Giles is playing host. We have a Yule log and egg nog and stockings and a tree and a ridiculous amount of presents, the whole Whos-in-Whoville bit."  
  
"Sounds great," I say. "Not like a Sunnydale Christmas, I guess."  
  
"Nope, and not in a bad way, either. Can you believe nothing's attacked us in over two weeks?"  
  
"Wow."  
  
"*And* it's a white Christmas. Well, okay, it's actually a kind of dirty green Christmas because the snow doesn't quite cover the grass, but it's a lot closer than you mostly ever get in SoCal. And it's supposed to snow more this afternoon so Dawn and I are planning to make a big vampire snowman."  
  
"And then you'll slay it?" I ask. I can hear that someone has put Bing Crosby on in the background over there – and he's dreaming of a white Christmas. The living room of my folks' house has taken on a quiet, dreamy feel as I talk softly. Nat has fallen asleep, his little eyes closed tight, and I lie on my back beside him.  
  
"Well, me or Faith," Buffy says.  
  
"Faith? Wait, wasn't she the bad Slayer?"  
  
"Yeah, but not anymore. Long story."  
  
"I bet," I say sleepily.  
  
"So why'd you call, Riley?"  
  
"Hmm? Oh, I was just thinking about you earlier."  
  
"Oh," she says.  
  
"You happy, Buffy?" I ask. My eyes are starting to close and that feels nice. It's cozy and warm in the living room and the carpet is soft. I can sort of see the colored lights through my eyelids. There's a pause when she doesn't say anything, and I can hear people talking rapidly and excitedly in the background.  
  
"Yeah," she finally says slowly, like it's just now dawning on her. "You know what? I am."  
  
"Good," I say, eyes still closed. "You should be. You should have ev'rything you ever wanted. Do you? Have everything?" I yawn. That feels good.  
  
She kind of laughs thoughtfully. "Huh? No, not everything... but sometimes, I think it's close enough." I hear giggling in the background again, more paper rustling and someone yells that Buffy's missing the traditional Christmas jelly doughnut breakfast. "Good enough for government work, anyway."  
  
"Exc'lent," I say sleepily. "You keep babies and church ladies safe. You should have everything."  
  
"Uh huh," she says, sounding like she's holding back laughter. "Riley?"  
  
"Huh? Yeah?" I say, yawning again.  
  
"Go back to bed."  
  
I smile. "Yeah, okay," I say. "Merry Christmas, Buffy. Be happy."  
  
"You too, Ri," she says.  
  
And that's why me and Nat woke up in the living room on his first Christmas morning.  
  
It's a white Christmas, and my son ignores his presents and spends the whole time playing with the ribbons and boxes. My little brother makes fun of my sweater, my big sister makes fun of the fact that I might coach high school football, and my wife makes fun of my falling asleep on the floor last night. But my mom made cherry pie and my dad makes a fire and my wife snuggles up beside me and my son falls asleep on my lap. Warm and cozy and it's Christmas.  
  
And it's pretty much everything I ever wanted.   
  
******  
  
END  
  
****** 


End file.
